The Lost

by Roberta Kray

  ‘That’s why you’re so easy to talk to,’ she said, ‘because you do understand.’

  Harry lifted his shoulders in a slight dismissive shrug. Was he being deliberately flattered? Perhaps. But he didn’t really care. All he did care about was that he was sitting here beside her and that she was finally telling him everything. She was telling him things her husband didn’t know, would possibly never know, and that filled him with a curious sense of awe and excitement.

  Ellen reached out and for one nerve-tingling moment he thought that her intention was to touch him. Instead, she took the glass from between his fingers and carefully poured half the contents of her glass into his. ‘I can’t drink all this,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to help me out.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  She held his gaze in a way that made his heart miss a beat. ‘After all these years I suddenly realized that I had to see Paul Deacon. There were too many unanswered questions. So I wrote and told him who I was. I asked if I could visit. I was sure he’d refuse, that he probably wouldn’t even write back, but he sent me a nice letter and a visiting order too. And I was so surprised, so alarmed, that I didn’t do anything about it for another two months.’

  ‘Alarmed?’ Harry said.

  ‘I think a part of me, the cowardly part, had been secretly hoping that he would ignore the letter or that he’d just send a blunt refusal. That way I could pretend I’d done my best to find out the truth without having to go through the actual process. It would have been his decision rather than mine.’ She gave another of her thin sad laughs. ‘But nothing’s ever that easy, is it? I knew, as soon I received the visiting order, that I’d have to go and see him. It filled me with dread but I didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘It was a brave thing to do,’ Harry said.

  Her gaze wavered. ‘Was it? I’m not so sure. I wonder now if it was simply selfish. I wasn’t really doing it for Tony or for the “truth” – whatever that might mean – but just to appease my conscience.’

  Harry knew all about guilt and conscience but now wasn’t the time to dwell on his own enduring problems. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she said. Her hands tightened round the glass as she raised it to her lips. ‘I wanted to believe that it was all Deacon’s fault, that he’d murdered Tony in cold blood. I wanted it all to be black and white, to be completely straightforward.’

  ‘But?’

  Ellen slumped over, putting the glass back on the table and burying her face in her hands. ‘There was nothing cold about him. That was clear from the first time we met. His emotions were as strong as mine … and as confusing. He’d loved Tony, still loved him. He was trying to make as much sense of it all as I was.’ She lifted her face and sighed. ‘That’s why I went back to see him again. And again. He was the only person I could talk to … about Tony, about the past.’

  Harry was beginning to comprehend why this was something she could never discuss with her husband. Long lost love wasn’t the best subject for discussion over the breakfast table or at any place come to that. His initial jealousy had been towards Adam but now it was beginning to shift. Her deepest emotions were rooted in the past. He wasn’t sure how to respond but knew there was one question that he had to ask: ‘So who was in that car today?’

  ‘I don’t know who was in it,’ she said. ‘But I can guess who sent them.’

  Harry hoped that she didn’t mean who he thought she did. But his worst suspicions were immediately confirmed.

  ‘Jimmy wants it left alone,’ she said. ‘He found out I was visiting Paul Deacon and thought … well, I’m not sure what he thought exactly – perhaps that I was planning on raking up the past. He doesn’t want his son’s name dragged through the mud again. I don’t think he was trying to kill me today. It was just a warning, to stop stirring things up, to stay away from Deacon.’

  An uneasy feeling was starting to spread through Harry’s guts. ‘So you’re still in touch with Jimmy Keppell?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t call it that. I hadn’t spoken to him since the trial and then a couple of weeks ago, just after I’d been to Maidstone, he rang me – I have no idea how he got my number – and asked why I was visiting Deacon. I told him what I’ve told you, that I was just searching for some answers, but he wasn’t happy. He told me to drop it, to stay away from him.’

  ‘And did you tell him about Curzon? Did you tell him there had been a reporter asking questions?’

  She could see where he was going and two pink spots instantly brightened her cheeks. ‘God, no!’ she said. ‘I swear. I hadn’t even met Len Curzon when I got the call. It was another week – no, more than a week before he came round.’ She swallowed hard and a visible shiver ran through her. ‘You don’t think that …?’

  Harry didn’t answer the question directly. ‘And you haven’t heard from Keppell since?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Did you talk to anyone about Len’s visit?’

  She gave another small shake of her head. ‘No one. Well, only Adam and that was on the same afternoon as I was supposed to be meeting …’ She paused, the memory of what had happened to Curzon causing her brows to furrow. ‘And Adam wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone else. I mean, even if he’d wanted to, which he wouldn’t, he didn’t have the time. We were together from the moment I told him.’

  ‘And what exactly did you tell him?’ Harry said.

  ‘Pretty much the same as I said to the police, that he was an old friend of my father’s who had written to me out of the blue.’

  ‘Okay,’ Harry said. Worryingly, it was starting to look like Jess could be right: Curzon’s death might have been deliberate. If Len had been watching Ellen, then maybe an anxious Jimmy Keppell had been too – and it wouldn’t have taken him long to suss out that he had company. If he’d then spotted Ellen talking to Len, he may well have presumed that the two of them were working together, that she was selling her story to the press and … Harry quickly put a brake on his thoughts before he got too carried away. At the moment this was all just idle speculation. ‘And you haven’t been back to see Deacon since?’

  ‘What, after that phone call?’ She forced out a wavering smile. ‘I’m not a complete fool.’

  Harry smiled back. ‘I never imagined that for a second.’ He twisted the glass between his fingers, trying to clarify his thoughts. It was easier to look down, to stare into his glass, than to meet those large brown eyes of hers. ‘But I still don’t understand why Keppell should react like this. Especially when you’ve done as he asked. You’ve stayed away from Deacon. You haven’t been back to visit him. So why should he suddenly decide to start threatening you?’ He wasn’t actually convinced that it had just been a threat – that car had come way too close for comfort – but didn’t want to add to her fear. At the same time, he didn’t want her to be too complacent about the situation either.

  ‘No,’ she said, puzzled. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, does it? Unless …’

  He glanced up at her. ‘Unless?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s still worried. I’m clearly not the only one who’s been asking questions. If that reporter was on to it, then maybe others are too. Maybe Jimmy thinks I could still be persuaded to talk.’

  Harry immediately thought of Jess. She had told him about her visit to Joan Sewell but that had nothing to do with this. In fact the whole Grace Harper theory was looking more ridiculous by the minute. It was a theory, however, that could be spilling over. He had no idea of who else Jess had been talking to, or what kind of hornets’ nest she might have been stirring up, but perhaps it was having repercussions. ‘But to talk about what? That’s what I don’t get. Nothing’s changed since the trial; there’s no new evidence, no new information, nothing that’s going to change anything.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, ‘but Jimmy hasn’t got over it, never has and never will, and he certainly doesn’t want to see it splashed all over the papers again. It was hard enough for him the first t
ime round.’ Her lips drew into a slight sardonic smile. ‘Big guys like Jimmy don’t breed sons who sleep with men … and especially not for money.’

  Or if they did, Harry thought, they certainly didn’t want reminding of it. He was still thinking about what to say, about what to ask her next, when he saw her glance down at her watch.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but it won’t be long before Adam gets back.’

  Taking the hint, Harry stood up. She stood up too. As they walked from the room he felt like a secret lover being bundled out before the husband got home. It wasn’t a bad feeling; on the contrary, it was oddly exciting, almost dangerously erotic. His gaze slid the length of her spine as she walked in front of him. ‘Have you thought about talking to Adam?’

  She stood by the door and looked up at him. Her wide eyes stared straight into his. ‘Do you tell your wife everything?’

  He had mentioned it before but he said it again. ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But there is someone, isn’t there?’

  Harry shrugged. He wasn’t sure if that was true any more. His relationship with Val was about as dire as it could be. She hadn’t even spoken to him since Friday and that had only been because she’d had to. They seemed so apart now, so distant, that he wasn’t sure if they could ever find their way back.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Ellen touched him gently on the arm.

  He felt his lungs expand, his breath draw in. ‘We can’t leave it like this,’ he said. ‘You’re not safe. What if he tries again, what if he—’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can deal with Jimmy Keppell.’

  Harry gazed down at her fragile frame and sighed. There were men ten times her size who must have uttered the very same words and were no longer around to say anything. ‘You have to be careful.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not on your own.’ Harry took out one of his cards and offered it to her. ‘We could meet up again, talk about it.’

  ‘I’ve already got your card,’ she said.

  He slowly returned it to his pocket. ‘But will you use it?’

  She didn’t answer him directly. ‘In case you’re wondering,’ she said. ‘I was the one who sent the newspaper cutting to Paul Deacon. I thought it might be useful if anyone started asking questions about his connection to me.’

  ‘Even though the dates didn’t tally?’

  Ellen gave a slight smile. ‘I didn’t think anyone would look into it that closely.’

  There was a short silence as she opened the door and stood aside.

  Harry hovered on the doorstep, knowing that he had to leave and desperately wishing that he didn’t. He stared down at the stairs as he tried to think of something purposeful to say. He ran a few sentences through his head and as quickly dismissed them.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

  As her fingers made contact with his arm, Harry felt that thrill run through his body again. ‘Promise me you’ll call.’

  ‘My promises aren’t worth much.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Call me. I’ll be waiting.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ray Stagg stood in his living room and gazed out over the floodlit garden. At the far end, he could see two of his men slowly patrolling the perimeter wall. The place was secure, built like a fortress – even the plate glass in the windows was bulletproof – but he wasn’t taking any chances. Ever since Keppell had stopped taking his calls, he’d been preparing for the worst.

  Turning, he picked up the ice-cold bottle of vodka and poured himself another stiff drink. There was no doubt about it: he was in the very deepest of shit. Keppell was out of control, on the rampage, behaving like a psycho. First there had been poor Tommo, then the barman and now the threats to Denise; it was only a matter of time before his own name jumped to the top of the list.

  And the only way of preventing that was to do something about it – and fast.

  He knocked back the vodka and refilled his glass. Jesus, as if life wasn’t difficult enough. How had it come to this? The last thing he had ever wanted was to be at war with Jimmy Keppell!

  He had thought about offering to pay the money back but knew that it would only be seen as a sign of weakness or, even worse, an admission of guilt. Anyway, this wasn’t about the cash but about reputation and respect. Rumours were already spreading about how Keppell had been ripped off by a small-timer, by some no-hoper market trader with cabbage for brains. And the fact that that particular vegetable happened to be Ray’s brother-in-law was reason enough for Keppell to extend his revenge to its logical conclusion.

  So, if appeasement was out of the question, that only left one option: he had to take him out.

  Ray smiled darkly down into his glass. From the moment he had heard about Tommo, heard what that bastard had done to him, he had known that he would never be happy until Keppell was six foot under and being eaten by the worms.

  That, however, was easier said than done. Hiring someone could be risky; if Keppell got a whisper, he’d be dead meat before the deposit had even changed hands. Keppell was richer, more powerful and, most worryingly of all, reliably vicious in his retribution. Finding someone prepared to take on the job could be a problem.

  He went back to the window and peered out towards the shadows bordering the edge of the garden. Ray didn’t trust a soul, not even his own men; blind loyalty had disappeared years ago and the old principles were obsolete. Maybe he could hire someone from abroad? But you couldn’t trust those foreigners either. He lit a cigarette and coughed up his disgust. It was a bad state of affairs when you couldn’t even trust a goddamn assassin!

  Which only left one other choice – he would have to do it himself. But how? Although he couldn’t deny that pumping a chamber of bullets into Jimmy Keppell’s chest would provide him with the ultimate of pleasures, it clearly had its downside too. He’d still be left with the tricky problem of dealing with the rest of the family. Revenge might be sweet but he didn’t intend to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. The Keppell dynasty was vast – Jimmy had two brothers and between them they had eight sons and even the sons had sons … and they were all in the family business.

  Denise came into the room, looked at him and slumped down on the sofa. ‘On your own, then?’

  He glared back at her. After what Keppell had done, he’d had no choice but to move her and the kids into his house. She wasn’t helping matters though, forever asking stupid questions. ‘What does it look like?’

  Denise curled her lip but didn’t reply.

  He knew what she thought: that this entire mess was his fault. And that was just beyond the pale. If it wasn’t for her husband they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. It was Al who was at the root of this nightmare; her own lying, cheating, no-good sod of a husband. He was the one who’d decided to take off with a vanload of shit that didn’t belong to him. He was the one who’d committed the ultimate act of treachery, betraying everyone who’d ever stood by him. And where was he now? Where did thieving bastards hang out when they no longer had a home to go to?

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him,’ he said.

  Denise stared down at the floor. ‘You know I haven’t.’

  ‘Big surprise,’ he said.

  She slowly lifted her tearful blue eyes. ‘It’s not my fault,’ she whined.

  But as far as Ray was concerned, it was. She was the stupid cow who’d married him. And now he was left with the problem of sorting out the nightmare that her diabolical choice in men had created. He was feeling mad enough, drunk enough, to tell her about Agnes, about the slutty Russian blonde who Al had probably been shagging, but then thought better of it. A whining Denise was preferable to a hysterical one.

  Had they been in it together: Al, Troy and Agnes? He’d known some unholy alliances in his time but they made an unlikely trio. He was sure, however, that Agnes was still alive – if Keppell had got hold of her, the body would have bee
n found by now.

  Al and Agnes must be holed up somewhere, probably in whatever shabby flat she was currently renting. The address she had given to the club was a false one. One of the other girls must know where she lived but none of them were talking; they were all too terrified by what had happened to Troy. He could have tried to beat it out of them but there were over thirty girls and bruises didn’t do much for business.

  Perhaps he’d been a little hasty as regards Harry Lind; the limping detective might still be useful. Holt had tipped him off about how Agnes had called Lind before she’d disappeared. Maybe she would call again. If she did, Ray wanted to be the first to hear about it.

  One way or another, he was going to get Jimmy Keppell. And if he couldn’t kill him with a bullet, he’d find another way to do it. Twenty years rotting in jail could be equally satisfying. With a bit of luck, Keppell would never see daylight again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Harry got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and made a decision: one way or another he had to sort things out with Valerie. This state of limbo couldn’t drag on forever. He tried her mobile phone but it went straight to voicemail. He then put a call through to the station and a woman informed him that DS Middleton had gone off shift. Would he like to leave a message? ‘No thanks,’ he said.

  He dithered for a few minutes before reluctantly ringing Jane Anderson’s number. ‘It’s Harry,’ he said.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s not me you’re after.’

  ‘Is she there?’ He pulled a face, preparing for one of those tedious lectures on how her best friend ‘needed her space’. Surprisingly, it wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘Sorry, she’s not around. There’s a birthday do for one of the lads. I think they’ve gone down The Fox.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Harry said. ‘Er … thanks.’